I love Brooklyn in the morning
because you’re always in the kitchen,
softly,
while your mother sleeps
and we drink coffee
to the hum of garbage trucks
and city birds
as the sun creeps its way into spring.

If we were birds,
you might an egret.
Maybe I’d be a finch.
Mockingbirds for mothers.
Bluejay fathers.

Let’s fly to the mountains
where the air allows us to think,
finally,
and take peyote on a dusky moonrise.
Cry with the sinking stars.

For now, we must satisfy ourselves
with telephone wires and call it even.
Cousins, but these days
co-travelers,
and in the morning,
coffee drinkers.

The other day
when you were walking down the street
I thought you might be growing wings.
I keep pulling hairs from my chin
and wishing they were feathers.
But maybe, that's just another form
of preening.